


Lionsong: Onus, Fate, & Undue Odium

by TheFire_in_the_NightSky



Series: Dum Spiro Spero [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Canon-Typical Violence, Companion Lavellan, Demisexual Deuteragonist, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, I did not plan on shipping these two so hard or at all, I'm a sucker for a good redemption arc, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Inquisitor Lavellan, Past Relationship(s), Self-Destruction, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, tragic backstories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-09-29 15:36:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17206088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFire_in_the_NightSky/pseuds/TheFire_in_the_NightSky
Summary: Aridhel Lavellan is not the Herald of Andraste nor the Inquisitor. No, but the man he thought he'd spend the rest of his life with has certainly taken up the mantle and a new Tevinter armpiece, much to his surprise. And what's more, he has some glowing green scar upon his hand that seems to be the key to ending all the chaos breaking out across Thedas.  Once their clan is extinguished due to a fatal judgement call on Felan's part, Aridhel is the last Lavellan standing in Wycome, though greatly wounded. His grave mistrust and loathing of humans grows with each passing day as he makes the journey to Skyhold. Once there, he makes a grand entrance, butting heads with Felan and all around him, but especially the commander of the Inquisition's forces, Cullen Rutherford. Now, Aridhel must learn the horrific truths a nomadic lifestyle hid from him as holes are punched through the Veil around Thedas and a darkspawn magister tries to play at being a god.





	1. Prologue: The Two of Swords

**Author's Note:**

> ***This fic will update sometime after each new update of Firebreather, as the plan is to have this run parallel to the events of that story.
> 
> Two quick little facts about Aridhel: His first name (AH-rih-DELL) means "our protection in the night" in Elvhen, and he is five years older than Felan, making him a twenty-nine year old brat at the time of this story ;D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3/17/19 - This newly added "prologue" was originally part of this series' "missing moments" section, Un Coup d'œil, before I had Lionsong planned out to write as a spin-off of sorts. So I've added it here because I feel it's an important interaction for Aridhel and Cullen, and shows that Cole just really wants to help these two stubborn, grumpy asses lol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags!  
> **Warnings for very vague implications of dubious consent in reference to Aridhel and his past dealings with humans, as well as on his journey to Skyhold. This is mentioned briefly through Cole in a cryptic manner, so it's not at all explicit and not focused on. I need to say that Aridhel sees himself (and Dalish elves in general) as better than humans, and therefore believes _he_ has used humans to get what _he_ wants, it doesn't matter if this is actually true or not, in reality. His ego and hatred/racism will not allow him to ever feel like the one being used. This is why I say "dubious consent."
> 
> Also, this chapter takes place directly after the end of Ch. 11 of Firebreather, for those who've also been following that story.

 

 

He’s shivering, close to it anyway.

The ill-fitting tunic Aridhel was apparently provided with after a healer saw to his old wound is hardly any barrier against the cold mountain air that whips into this… cave?  He isn’t entirely sure where this prison he’s trapped in is located within the hold. The shem-brute standing watch outside his cell had unfortunately knocked him unconscious and dragged him away here before he’d woken, of course.   _Of course._

Aridhel preferred the presence of the red-haired woman.  She was  _quiet_ when she spoke to him, and watched him… differently than the other two humans.  The other woman,  _Cassandra,_ he’d heard the blond  _ass_ call her, had left along with the redhead not long ago, whispers trailing them on the cold, damp air.

The “commander” stands silent for now, however; profile and tangle of a dark fur mantle peeking just enough into view passed the stone doorway of Aridhel’s cell.   Over and over, Aridhel scuffs the heel of one of his boots (he’d lucked out greatly that the man he’d stolen them from on his travels was around his size and build) into the lip of an uneven stone block in the floor.  Every time he feels the commander side-eye him, he must hold back a self-satisfied grin. He silently  _dares_ the human to open his mouth to tell him to stop - his annoyance clear in the way faint little huffs of steam leave his mouth if Ari gives a particularly good kick to the stone.

Luckily, his taunts are keeping his blood flowing, warming him slightly.   _Enough._

“I know what you’re trying to do,” the man says.

“Oh?  What is it that I’m doing?”

“Just be still,  _would you?”_ The commander’s tone is almost,  _almost_ pleading and Aridhel watches as a hand invades his dark silhouette - seemingly going to rub his brow.  So he  _is_ annoying the man, after all.  

Aridhel smiles to himself, then shifts from his seated position on the floor to lie on his back, propping his booted feet on the wall, and - ah,  _there -_ another unruly stone block.  He sits up a moment, grabbing the straw pillow from the cot and lays it beneath his head.  His hands settle over his ribcage, as he gets as comfortable as he can.

With a quick glance to the human, he drags the sole of his boot down the wall hard into the jutting stone.

“Does your recalcitrance have a  _point_ beyond immature, petty annoyance?!” snaps the commander.  He looms in front of Aridhel’s cell door now. “Maker's breath…”

“I'm sure you have more pressing matters to attend to,  _Commander._ You could leave, could you not?  Or do you truly perceive me a threat behind these bars?”

Silence.

The man's attention snaps to his left.  “Cole? I… I'd prefer you not be down here.”

A boy - another shem, and perhaps no older than eighteen, appears beside the commander.  His drooping, overly wide-brimmed hat and patchwork leathers spark a bemused curiosity in Ari, as does his hesitant behaviour.  

“I came to help.  His hurt,” the boy gestures down at Aridhel on the floor.  The torchlight helps cast an almost black shadow across his face with the aid of his headwear now.  “it screams at me. So loud, drowning out the burn in his muscles, hotter than the heat of a fever.”  He looks down at Aridhel. “It pushed you here, but you don’t know why.”

 _“Who are you?”_ Aridhel rises onto his elbows.  What is this nonsense about pain this boy spouts at him?

“Cullen hurt you, but he’s sorry.  You hurt him, he did what he had to.  Your anger towards Felan worries him, scares him.  Bright, burning, it suffocates like smoke. Warming, warning.  Nothing to feed the fire here so you snuff out another’s spark before it catches.”

Aridhel doesn’t know what riddled mess the boy is speaking of, but it makes him uncomfortable, nonetheless.  The commander _(Cullen,_ apparently) shifts next to the strange boy.

“Cole… he uh, he can sense pain,  _distress,_ in people.”

Aridhel narrows his eyes up at Commander Cullen.  “Yes, I can see that much is clear! Or so he says... What did Felan tell you?!” He looks to Cole.

But the man answers before the boy can explain himself.  “He doesn’t need to ah, he can  _feel it,_ read it from people.  He means well, but I’ll make him go.”

 _“No._ Let’s see what you think you know of me, boy.” Aridhel glares at him through the darkness of his stone room.

Commander Cullen moves away and pulls a wooden chair into view.  Aridhel hears it groan from the armoured weight of the human as he takes a seat.  He looks weary, and Aridhel can’t understand why the man is still here. His presence is added sandpaper to Ari’s nerves.

Aridhel lies back against the flattened pillow, bringing his knees up.  The slight unease of this situation doesn’t distract him from the cold. Stones beneath his back dig painfully into his still-tender flesh; strains in his muscles lingering in their protest from his most recent journey from Jader.

Cole takes half a step forward and Aridhel can still barely make out his face.  It chills him further, not being able to make eye contact with him.

“Felan thinks I may not be able to help.   _You_ used to be part of his hurt.  Two ends of a thread, tangled in knots, but not bound.  I remember when he thought of you. He saw you as something better than him...  Snow on a mountain peak that glows in the sun. I can’t reach that far. Always wondering.  Does he forgive me for leaving? Blue and silver falling away. A wolf and its moon. Lost.”

 _That_ sends Aridhel upright in a second.  He wobbles on unsteady legs to stand.  “He told you these things, then?! Felan, he…”  Confusion and fear and shame war inside Aridhel.  Cole just shakes his head.

“He told me, but not with words.  It’s like Cullen said: The hurt, it speaks to me.  And I try to fix it. Your hurt is like a pot, boiling over.  Simmering over the edges. Soon, there will be nothing left. Empty.”

The boy’s explanation makes Ari’s skin prick with more fear.  His ears twitch back and his muscles tense and coil as if readying for a fight he is not armed for.  “What  _are you?!_ You read my mind, then?  Are you a demon?” He looks frantically towards Cullen.  “Is  _this_ how your Inquisition tortures its prisoners, shemlen?!”

“What?  Maker, no!  No, admittedly, I was more than wary of him at first, as well.  But Cole is no demon. We um, have an elven apostate, Solas, with us who has assured and explained that Cole is… a spirit of Compassion.  He has proven loyal to the Inquisition and its cause. We have not yet been given reason to doubt him.” Cullen’s soft-spoken words are the calmest Aridhel has heard the man.  And it  _shouldn’t_ ease Aridhel’s mind.    _It shouldn’t._

“You trust…”  _It,_ is what Aridhel wants to say.  “him, then?” A spirit taking the form of a teenage human is more unnerving than a bright wisp of a humanoid shape he is used to seeing.

Cullen nods.  “I will admit, he has helped  _me_ at times…”

Aridhel takes a tentative step forward, the line of his body still tense, though he and the spirit are separated by rough stone and iron.  “I-I don’t need help.  _There is nothing to fix!”_ A macabre curiosity prevents Ari from telling the commander to make this… spirit - this boy,  _leave._

Cole walks closer, and now Aridhel has a better view of his melancholic visage.  “I just want to help! If I make it worse, if I mess it up, you’ll forget. And I’ll go.”

Aridhel doesn’t want to think about the meaning behind  _that_ statement.  “How? How are you supposed to help me??”

“Others making him happy, making him stay when I couldn’t.  Rage churning in my gut like the sea that knows no rest. Always awake, it drifts me towards him.  Dark and alone, surrounded by too many in the belly of a ship. Eyes on ink, on ears. Pretend I’m not strong.  Will they throw me over if I fight? I pray he isn’t happy to see me.”

 _“Fenedhis…”_ Aridhel looks away, hands balling into fists.    _He knows.  He sees._

“You think if he hates you, you’ll deserve it.  Hate makes everything easier. It’s why you hold onto it like a weapon.  But hate hurts. Cold and cunning. Hurt before they hurt me. Hiding behind ice to block out the warmth.”

Aridhel doesn’t look, but he  _hears_ Commander Cullen’s uncomfortable shift in his chair.  He listens to the cold scrape of metal against wood, letting it ground him as he fights back the sting of angry tears.

“Go on then!  What else is it you hear?”  He  _hates_ the strain in his voice.  All of his scowling makes the bruises and scant swelling around his eye throb anew.  Aridhel winces, immediately cursing himself under his breath.

Cullen clears his throat, catching Aridhel’s attention.  The man is rubbing his palms together slowly, with a knit of worry between his brows as he looks up at Ari.  “Look, Master Aridhel…  _do you_ want me to make him leave?  Are you certain this is alright?”  In a daze, Aridhel watches the steam curl from beneath the man’s scarred upper lip -  _how had he missed that mark before? -_ and realises he has not once seen the same evidence of warm breath mingling with chilled air from the boy-like spirit.

“I’m alright.  Go on,” Aridhel answers finally.  Quietly. He wants  _quiet,_ but he wants answers more.

Cole continues with a slight, worried frown upon his face.  “A blade of blame. Guilt like a guillotine. Why did I survive?  It should have been me. Why save the one who should have done more?  Enduring, repentant. No vial can contain you. One of three, separated in prevention.  Unbound, but caged, I must not follow. Broke the chain, but still leashed by its song. Can’t put a collar on a Master.  An extra sovereign if I let them use one. No brand, no clan, no Order. Safe, but don’t belong. Now two of three, three yourselves, asunder.  Caged, but still meddling, you will not goad me. Truth will hold you, or it is no longer true.” Cole’s hands go to the side of his face as he shakes his head, distraught.  “No, no! That isn’t right!”

“Wait, what are you saying?”  Cullen stands suddenly, concern thick in his voice, and walks over to Cole.  Aridhel feels like he’s taken a knife to his gut.

“No…  _no!_ Your thoughts, both of you… they’re all mixed up!  I can’t tell who is who and what is right. You’re both too loud now, echoes overlapping.  You both carry the same hurt from a different blade. You’re alive, and that should be enough, but why isn’t it?  Using shields that protect, until it’s too much. Blocking, blotting out the sun until you’re only shadow. Guarding, unguarded.  Didn’t protect them like I vowed. Smiting with silence. Creating danger where there is none. Hurt them before they hurt me.”

Nothing but the wind and a couple muffled coughs from another prisoner down the way fill the uncomfortable void around them.  Aridhel feels like he’s been flayed raw, like his insides have been rearranged the wrong way. Everything is  _uncomfortable._ It hurts like an inner pain that he’s never known.  More than the losses he’s experienced, old and new; more than his worst injuries.  It is the pain he’s been seeking for far too long.

He wants it fucking lanced from him so he can bleed out the  _why._

Cullen’s bare hand white-knuckles a cell bar.  Aridhel blinks in confusion and realises he’d made his way to the door as well.  When had that happened?

Aridhel watches the man mouth “not here” to Cole and he knows then that what the spirit-boy was speaking of wasn’t just for _him._ He should take pleasure in this shemlen’s apparent grief, but it tastes stale in his mouth.  Bitter like over-steeped tea.

“Is that all, spirit?” Aridhel asks, voice wavering.  “That is how you shall help us? By reaching in and baring hidden truths you find?”

Truths.   _Weaknesses._

“I know how to help you both now.”  The boy sounds more hopeful than he had previously.  His downcast eyes leave the ground and he gently grabs the bars of Aridhel’s cell.  Cullen lets go and turns his back on Aridhel, leaning against the bars as he runs a hand through his wavy golden hair.  “The strength that slips through their fingers, like water or sand… You catch it for them and direct it back. You both make people feel more powerful, better than their armour.  Proud, watching, protecting. Stronger than you think when you push with a purpose. The shadow lost his, the lion thinks he isn’t good enough for it. Still whole where something is missing.  It used to fit, but it was the wrong piece.”

The commander sighs, tipping his head back against the bars.  “Cole… are you ever wrong?”

“You’re both wrong.  You and  _him,_ warriors that can both keep pushing, keep moving onward.  But you hold yourselves back. Heal, let go of the hurt you hold so tightly.  I hear the things you’re not saying. Why do you want to leave, Cullen?” Cole gestures towards Aridhel suddenly.  “He knows no one will trust him, they’ll fear him, yet he doesn’t want to go. If you leave, the pain and the past win.”

Leave?  That catches Aridhel’s attention passed the emotions he’s feeling.  He wonders if the shemlen means to leave the Inquisition?  _Curious._

“What are you running from, mm Commander?” Aridhel hums the question near the man’s ear, nearly startling him.  He turns to face Aridhel with a half-hearted scowl etched in his features.

“It is none of your business.  We’re done here, Cole. I apologise, but I think you should go…”

Cole drifts away from the bars.  “You are not bad people, not like you think.  I would know it, hear it. Not bad, just broken - like beach glass.  Rough waters can polish away the sharp edges. Still beautiful and worth something to someone when they find it.”

The spirit-boy glances over at Cullen, seemingly studying him for a moment, then begins to walk away.  Before he clears Aridhel’s cell, they lock eyes. Cole’s features soften into a small smile and he tells Ari, “That’s what your eyes remind him of.  Like the green shard he found in the lake when he was a boy. He gave it to his little sister when he left.”

And then the boy is  _gone._

Aridhel ignores the chill that runs through him in favour for the heat that creeps into the tips of his ears.  He all but throws himself back down onto the ground and slumps against the wall, facing Cullen’s towering form outside the door.

He says the first churlish thing that comes to mind, though it isn’t much.  “I  _don’t_ want to stay here, by the way,  _Commander._  Not in this prison, not in this hold.  That…  _whatever he was,_ was lying.”

A soft chortle comes from the man before him as he turns and walks out of view.  He returns, holding his discarded vambrace and blood-stained glove. Cullen sighs in something resembling relief and takes a seat in the rickety wooden chair again.

“Cole may say many things, some odd, some confusing.  But he does not  _ever_ lie,” he says while strapping the vambrace around the glove he’s just put on.  “Also, no need to be so formal with me.  _Cullen_ is sufficient, as you have no ties with us.  Nor do you seem intent on having any.”

This  _Cullen_ would be correct.  “You still refer to me as ‘Master Aridhel,’ but you have no ties to  _my_ people.  Though I suppose, I do not either…” Aridhel trails off.  

“I was only trying to be respectful.  But I’ll desist if it pleases you.”

Ari’s eyes flick to the pin-pricks of red seeping from beneath the human’s bandage around his arm, and the wound at his jaw he’d inflicted upon him.  “Do you always extend respect to those who try to kill you?”

Another little amused laugh from Cullen.  “If you intended to kill me, I think you would have tried harder; half-dead or no.  I’ve never fought with anyone like you. You… surprised me.”

Shifting around uncomfortably, Aridhel tries to relish in the way the cold stone at his back eases his tired muscles, and not the way it makes gooseflesh rise along his skin.  The almost-compliment from the shem makes him feel… odd. He doesn’t want to thank him. Aridhel exhales through his nose in frustration, fidgeting with the ratty leather ties of his trousers.  “I think I need to speak to Felan.”

Cullen rises from his chair quicker than Ari anticipated.  “I’ll locate him. I uh… am afraid we cannot let you out of your cell when you speak with him again…”

“No, I would think not… I understand.”

“And I’ll um, speak to one of our runners about fetching you a blanket.”

Aridhel’s brows furrow as he looks up at the man, but he schools his features.  “Ma serannas… ah, thank you.”

“I don’t know if it’s a Dalish thing, but perhaps it would also benefit you to  _not_ sit on the cold ground?”  There is a smirk hiding away in the line of Cullen’s mouth as he turns away.

As the commander’s footsteps echo away Aridhel laughs softly, quietly, and decides to remain where he is.

He doesn’t know why he hopes it is  _that_ particular human who brings him the blanket... and  _not_ some Inquisition runner.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Some parts of what Cole says when he's getting mixed thoughts from Ari & Cullen are actually taken from the Awiergan Scrolls: Second Aspect, found in Dragon Age II :P


	2. Oh, to Get Involved in the Exchange

  
  


With arms crossed, Aridhel stares at the newly crafted armour he’d laid out on Felan’s bed.  His fingers bite into his biceps, muscles still tender and sore from his journey to the Frostback Mountains.  At least his legs are finally recovering from the lengthy ride on horseback that took him from Jader to a small little village not terribly far from here.

He’d been hard-pressed to make more stops than necessary, especially after wasted days trying not to die of infection from his wounds while in Kirkwall.  But Aridhel liked to think of himself as not an entirely selfish man, and stopped to water his horse and leave the foam-sweaty gelding in the better care of the shems occupying the small village he had stumbled upon.  From there, it had been a couple days walk to Skyhold as he pushed himself to the brink. Looking back, perhaps he should have just waited a day or so for his horse to recover, but his had been no beast’s burden to bear, anyway.  No, it was far too personal and the burn in his muscles and the ache in his frozen bones had done well to exhort him on to his destination.

Wound-weary and half-starved with merely his sword and the tattered clothing on his back (some “borrowed,” some his own), Aridhel had nearly lost all of the voracious strength left in him by the time he finally arrived - though he’d certainly given the Inquisition’s commander what for once the man had gotten in his way as he pleaded for audience with Felan.

Bruised face thanks to the commander’s shield aside, Aridhel was shocked by everyone’s simple kindnesses, especially Felan’s.  He’d woken in a jail cell, yes, but with the festering, stubborn-to-heal sword wound on his side cleaned and mostly healed beneath fresh bandages, and the frostbite he knew was leeching out the warmth and feeling from his fingers, toes, and ears reversed to his astonishment.  Now, the rest of his meagre accommodations those first couple of days in his barred little room were not much of a surprise, given the circumstances of his unannounced and perhaps rather violent arrival.

Aridhel and Felan had shared words heavily laced with hurt and vitriol upon their initial reunion in the castle dungeon, but it was the eerie visit from the Inquisition’s most ghostly of members that caught Aridhel by the heart the most; squeezing until truths he’d long thought buried beneath a shield of emotional armour bled forth… in front of one Commander Rutherford no less, the bastard.

The enigmatic boy _\- Cole -_ had left Aridhel filled with consternation after his little visit, and it made him feel rubbed raw in the days following.  The things Cole had spoken to him in riddled flow about the commander as both their thoughts apparently vined together also tickled Aridhel’s subconscious in the times he wasn’t busy being forced into drills with the Inquisition soldiers.

And so, that brings him here.  Felan had left with his closest comrades-in-arms and that damned, preening Tevinter-spiv bedmate of his for the Western Approach days ago... but not before Aridhel’s former betrothed had very curtly ordered him to work with Commander Rutherford in training their soldiers as a sign of reconciliation and good faith to all.  He is sure the sneer on both his face and the commander’s mirrored each other at the news. In some sort of peace offering, Felan also instructed Aridhel to visit a man by the name of Harritt in Skyhold’s undercroft after his measurements were taken by a very fast-talking, overly polite Antivan beauty who was apparently the Inquisition’s ambassador.  

The blacksmith was gruff but knowledgeable, and clearly held a fatherly sort of fondness for Felan.  However, the plucky dwarven arcanist down there grated on Aridhel’s nerves and he was pleased when she finally took his silence at her prodding as a final answer that _no,_ he did not wish to embellish his armour or sword with flashy, enchanted baubles, no matter how “mostly safe” or “truly amazing and twice as useful” they might indeed be.

Harritt’s smug grin at Aridhel’s clear annoyance with the dwarf warmed something within him, but it was the human’s careful handling of his most precious possession - the claymore he’d had since he was nearly twenty, that earned a respect from Aridhel.  He’d still not been granted allowance to carry his weapon yet, but it was a relief knowing his sword was in good hands.

The Dalish claymore’s long, tapered blade of Paragon’s Luster had been forged a decade ago with the purpose of matching the beautifully carved hilt made for him by Felan’s hand before their friendship had been driven off the cliff of innocence into something much less platonic.  

 _“You remind me of the moons,”_ he’d said to Aridhel, fingers trailing the intricately carved bone-pale crescent moons of the handguards before handing the gift over.   _“Just when I think things are darkest, I know I can look to you and find the light, Ari.”_

“And where is your light now?” Aridhel mutters to the walls of Felan’s empty rooms, eyes roving over the Tevinter mage’s personal effects scattered about the shared space with a sickening lived-in carelessness.  Felan had offered Aridhel, quietly _\- secretly -_ to stay in his chamber for a night or two while they were gone if he’d wanted a good night’s rest in a “proper bed.”   _A human bed,_ Aridhel wanted to remind him, but he'd bit his tongue.  No, he could not stay _here,_ not in this room.  He curses his former lover’s gall at even suggesting it, knowing full well Aridhel was no thick-skulled dolt and would be more than aware of what surely went on in these rooms, _on this bed,_ with that shiny, ridiculously moustachioed human on his arm.  Aridhel quickly gathers up the leather armour from the pristine bed coverings, turning to instead lay the pieces across the cream-coloured settee behind him before his imagination runs wild with covetous thoughts about the goings on upon this innocuous piece of furniture as well.

He’d simply decided to use Felan’s quarters as a means to change in a bid for privacy away from people he did not yet have cause to trust; it was bad enough he felt the need to quickly wash while in the castle’s public baths.  No one needed to know this was also a way for Aridhel to satisfy his curiosity over where their precious Inquisitor spent his time when he wasn’t off saving the world with that cursed mark on his hand. Aridhel had already made it well known to Ambassador Montilyet, much to her frowning dismay, that a tent out of the way in the courtyard where some of Skyhold’s guardsmen stayed would more than suffice.  So far, he'd proven just that despite the unconcealed, wary glances constantly thrown his way by guards and soldiers alike.

As Aridhel shirks off his worn and dirty clothing, a shiver runs down his spine at the memory of feeling that strange green mark against his own palm when Felan had taken his hand through the bars of his cell in an innocent, comforting gesture while they attempted talk of a more “civil” nature concerning the death of the only real family either of them had ever known.  It felt as though whatever magics lay dormant beneath the flesh reached out to Aridhel as a kept hound would sniff a stranger’s outstretched hand. He’d nearly snatched his hand back instantly at the sensation.

The whole thing left Aridhel feeling muzzy and slightly guilty.  Had he truly sent Felan to this fate when he’d asked him back to the clan, only to emotionally blackmail him into being his spy on the Conclave?  The more nauseating thought he tried avoiding was whether or not he’d also sealed the fate of their clan in doing so. Would the events in Wycome have ever transpired if he hadn’t helped set in motion their clan’s involvement with this enormous mess?

Aridhel sniffs back his emotions and pulls on his wide belt of tassets, smoothing and straightening out the heavy segments of embossed leather over his bare, tattooed thighs and the fringed front of the deep green cotton loincloth he’d _reluctantly_ decided to make for himself, as well.  His ornately decorated brigandine is next, and when his nimble fingers work over tightening the straps down the length of his torso, Aridhel revels in the feeling of wearing armour fit just for him once more.  Pride wells in his chest at being able to show off his own handiwork to these shemlen. It is hard not to admit that he is grateful these people let him make use of their resources, but a small part of him also feels as though he is _owed_ after their failed attempt to help save his clansmen.

Boots and bracers on, Aridhel walks over to a tall object across the other side of the room.  It’s shrouded in heavy, plain fabric, but Aridhel has a strong suspicion that what lies beneath is a full-length mirror.  He is soon proven right when he gives the fabric a strong tug. Why the gaudy, gilt-framed thing was covered is lost on him, and he only finds himself caring enough to remember to re-cover it when he’s finished making use of it.

The polished, silver-backed glass shows his reflection in less than peak form, thanks to his scarce meals along his winding trek over land and sea to get here.  When he made his new armour, Aridhel had decided to add more seams and straps than his usual tastes allowed so as to better let it out as he gained some of his weight and muscle back - which he hopes to be soon.  The bruising around his right eye and cheekbone had mostly faded now to mottled greens and yellows with the help of herbal decoctions he'd drank. But admittedly, Aridhel wishes he had a way to cover the bruises a bit better.  Letting himself be bested by the commander, no matter how weakened his state was, is an added embarrassment and he doesn’t much approve of the reminder upon his visage. His silvery hair hangs low, pulled back at the nape of his neck and he fidgets with loose waves around his face, trying in vain to frame his eyes in a way that distracts from the bruising.

Finally, Aridhel gets the idea to walk over to the hearth and crouches down in front of it in a huff.  The fire has long been dormant and the charcoal-scaled logs are cool to the touch as Aridhel runs the fingertips of both hands across the sooty, burnt bark until they come away with a heavy coating of black.  Back at the mirror, Aridhel smudges around his eyelids, careful not to cover the pale blue dotting of vallaslin below his eyes as he does so. He works the makeshift kohl around his eyelids until he cannot help the self-satisfied smirk curving the edge of his mouth.  Wiping his dirtied fingers onto the edge of the red jacquard duvet of Felan’s bed causes his smile to curve sharper still.

Aridhel’s mischievous green eyes glimmer like serpentstone in the mirror as he gives himself one last look over before tossing the sheet back over the mirror.  He gathers the old, soiled clothing and boots he’d arrived in and tosses them over one of Felan’s balconies to be lost to the snowy mountainside for good measure.

Taking the numerous steps down from Felan’s tower, the smile that doesn’t leave Aridhel’s face is nearly embarrassing enough to make him laugh deprecatingly at himself.   _Fuck it,_ he thinks - he hasn’t had a real and true reason to smile in weeks.  And perhaps, he could use it to craft the perfect mask to aid him in wheedling his way into a certain _someone’s_ good graces.  

He had something of his to get back afterall.

He liked that dagger rather a lot, _fenedhis!_ ...No matter that it had been stolen from some careless, handsy drunkard at an inn.  Before pushing open the door to the main hall of the keep, Aridhel lets a quiet laugh escape thinking about how he may just employ the same tactics he’d used to acquire the lovely blade to get the damned thing back.  He certainly _could_ use a bit of fun.

 

Aridhel makes his way to the battlements from the main rotunda of the keep, thankful the older elf that usually haunts its frescoed walls is seemingly absent.  He’d already wrangled Aridhel into conversation on his opinions of living as a Dalish once, and Aridhel had nipped that in the bud quickly, holding back the want to tell the elven mage how insensitive his prying was - given the losses he and Felan had recently sustained with their clan.

Unfortunately, this is the only way to the commander’s office that Aridhel knows of… and only because he’d asked Josephine, and this was the direction she’d instructed him on.  Though, she had made mention of two other entrances; this one had been the closest from the main hall, of course.

The orange-tinged lavender of dusk is fast approaching, and he breathes in the cool night air as it dances gooseflesh upon his arms and legs.  Up ahead, a patrolling guard walks towards Aridhel with purpose in the stomp of his boots against the stone walk.

“Ho there serrah,” the man stops in front of Aridhel, eyeing him up and down without concern for decency.

“Yes?  I have business with the commander,” Aridhel explains, already feeling impatience well up inside him.

“He know that?”

Well, Aridhel can already see where this is going, best to make quick work of it, then.  “No, but he _will_ once I get to where I’m going, you see.  So, my good man, if you’ll excuse me.”

The man attempts to cut off a noise of offence from leaving the back of his throat, but makes no move to get out of Aridhel’s way.  The battlements are wide enough for either man to walk around of course, but Aridhel isn’t budging for some disrespectful shem. _“Please?”_ he flashes the guard a coquettish, toothy grin.

Roughly bumping Aridhel’s shoulder with his own, the guard walks on, but not before mumbling, “bloody knife-ear” as he passes.  Aridhel just chuckles at the retreating human’s easily ruffled feathers.

At the commander’s door, Aridhel decides the kinder thing to do would be to knock before he enters; so he does, twice, then opens the door just as a “What is it?” is being growled his way.

Aridhel shuts the door behind him and watches as across the room, a very bothered Cullen Rutherford narrows his eyes at him, then softens his features while standing to his full height from behind his desk.  In the dim firelight of the office, Aridhel’s elven eyes have no issue, and his conscience no qualms, about watching the way ochre eyes rove over the olive skin of his legs and arms made bare by the design of his armour.  

A wicked grin plays upon Aridhel’s face when the commander’s eyes reach his face and he cocks his head to the side, waiting for the human to let the question teetering at the precipice of his nearly gaping mouth roll from his tongue.

“I uh, Master Aridhel.  Normally one waits to be called to enter before… well, _entering.”_ The man attempts to look formidable in his fluster, shoulders rolling back and hands coming to rest at the pommel of the sword at his hip.  “Is there something you needed? I have much left to do here.” He gestures with one hand at the scatter of paper across his desk, but Aridhel pays it no real mind and shrugs.

“There is indeed something I need, Commander, and _you_ have it.”

Cullen’s eyes go a little wide at Aridhel’s suggestive purr.  Oh yes, _what fun to be had here._

 

 


	3. A Tangle of Horns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barely edited half of this because I had to rewrite a few paragraphs and I'm impatient. So excuse any mistakes, but please kindly let me know of any glaring errors!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

Through the fan of Rylen and Felan’s reports, Cullen tries to make sense of their best plan of action for the proposed march on Adamant Fortress, but the fog of a nauseating migraine is quickly drifting in.  Truth be told, he isn’t much looking forward to the journey to Orlais in a few days, but he knows that once he and the Inquisition party are on the move, he’ll be able to think better on the siege.

He goes stir-crazy here far too often.  

Hawke, Fenris, and Varric, along with this Warden Stroud fellow, had apparently been the ones to scout the keep together under the cover of night - and not that he didn’t trust the colourful-expletive-ridden missive from Hawke and Varric - _but,_ Cullen felt a much more confident relief when he’d received the dispatch from Felan via Inquisition scouts.  His were always straight and to the point; baring no emotion considering his words were dictated to whatever scribing soldier or scout was near to do the writing he himself could not.  But Cullen took a comfort in that directness; knowing it meant Felan was still safe and well.

Cullen shuffles papers to another stack and rolls his eyes while considering the letter from Rylen and his suggestion of not bringing any soldiers “greener than the Breach” along with them.   _Duly noted._

Personally, Cullen is a little surprised that Felan wants the whole of his Inner Circle to accompany them to Adamant.  But, understanding their Inquisitor the way he does, Cullen also knows Felan is not one for dramatics. Reckless at times though he may be, if Felan believes he needs all the manpower at his disposal, it is no overreaction.

At the door opposite Cullen, a couple knocks in quick succession shake him from the beginning thoughts on the disturbing blood magic ritual Felan and his companions had bore witness to in the Western Approach once they’d arrived.

 _“What is it?”_ He really cannot do with another war room meeting right now; his energy is waning and the meagre candlelight is even beginning to hurt his eyes.  Cullen surmises it’s likely a runner come to deliver him more news - _until_ Aridhel saunters into his office.

Seeing as the elf was not even bade to enter, Cullen’s annoyance spikes a little further, brushing aside his initial surprise.

He notices Aridhel is wearing new, very elven-looking armour; something Cullen doesn’t know how to feel about, considering he is using their Inquisition resources for his own crafting.  Cullen still doesn’t even know how he feels about Felan letting Aridhel _join_ the Inquisition in the first place.  If Cullen was being perfectly honest, adding someone as unpredictable as he to their ranks seemed ill-advised.

At least he doesn’t look like a beggar from the fringes of an alienage any longer - quite the opposite, actually.

Aridhel inches forward a step and Cullen swallows hard, though he still manages to stare irritatedly across the room at the elf.  The dark smudge of kohl around his eyes is distracting in its severity, but not more so than the pale, bluish tattoos that Cullen can now glimpse curving from the sides of Aridhel’s surprisingly muscular legs to slope down towards his inner thighs.  The dull amber flicker of the candelabras highlights the russet brown leather skirt of Aridhel’s tassets, as well as the green of the fabric that peeks from beneath with each measured step forward he takes towards Cullen’s desk. It all draws more attention to the deep olive skin branched in delicate tattoos.  His arms are bare of vallaslin, unlike Felan’s, and Cullen can now see that despite the malnourishment of his previous travels, Aridhel is also much broader than the Inquisitor, though perhaps an inch or so shorter.

Cullen mentally sputters at the unwelcome derailment of his thoughts and stands as inconspicuously as he can, daring not to bring a hand to the back of his neck.  Instead, his hands sweat beneath his gloves, balling into fists at his sides.

But _Maker take him,_ the elf was now as enticing as any desire demon he’d ever seen and surely just as dangerous.

Aridhel cants his head to the side slightly as Cullen grasps for words - _yes,_ words would be good right about now.  

The aggravatingly knowing smile that spreads across Aridhel’s face while Cullen meets his eyes almost causes him to lose the meagre composure he’d finally managed to grab hold of and he nearly misses the pommel of his sword as he moves to grip it as tight as the clench in his jaw.

“I uh, Master Aridhel,” Cullen greets, internally wincing at his less than commanding tone. “Normally one waits to be called to enter before… well, _entering.”_ Aridhel drops his grin in favour of appearing apathetic to this admonishment.  

The heat of Cullen’s temper crackles a bit at that.  He doesn’t need his time wasted by insolence. “Is there something you needed?  I have much left to do here.” He motions to the paperwork across his desk as if that will break through the elf’s mask of indifference, but Aridhel’s shoulders lift in a shrug.

“There is indeed something I need, Commander, and _you_ have it.” Aridhel’s voice mirrors the boredom in his movements, though Cullen does not miss the suggestive smile in his eyes.

Aridhel saunters over, fingertips first trailing the edge of the desk, then on to slowly move missives and reports askew when he rounds the side of it.  He looks up at Cullen through dark lashes finally. “You know, Commander, elves are much more perceptive and observant than you shemlen. We notice everything - we _must_ in order to survive.”  Aridhel steps around the corner of the desk to face Cullen.  “Those that are not, well… they fall victim to _treachery_ or any number of dangers marked solely for our kind.”

There is a sneer in Aridhel’s voice.  Were it not for their height difference, Cullen would find him intimidating, but he won’t let himself be bested by him again.  He grips the pommel of his sword harder, pulling it from its scabbard by centimetres.

But Aridhel notices and laughs lightly, shaking his head.  “Commander, I did not finally come to seek revenge from you, no…”

Cullen loosens his grip on his sword, but his shoulders and neck tense, making his head throb all the more.  He scrambles for diffusion of the situation; something seems off.

“Your wit and cunning, is that how you became Master of Clan Lavellan?”

Another chortle from Aridhel, as if the question itself was stupid.  “Hardly. No, if only it were as simple as that, as _earned.”_

“Tell me, then.  I’m afraid I cannot claim to know much of Dalish clan hierarchy.” Cullen says softly.

“And why does it matter so to _you?”_ Something in Aridhel snaps, each word becoming more vehement and venomous than the last. _“I_ was the one who had to take lead after your valiant Inquisitor decided he preferred to wallow in his own self-loathing and pity instead, and then _to run._  He asked it of me because he _knew_ I could not say no to him!  The whole of the clan backed his choice up, of course.  Because there was _no one else!_ He decided _his_ feelings were more important than ours - than _mine -_ when we needed him most.  Not even our Keeper could change his mind... _”_

“I-I am sure Felan did not do it with malicious intent-”

“Of course you would defend him… _Your saviour._ Do not forget, Commander… even the most beautiful of sunrises cast dark shadows.  Do not be foolish as I was.”

Cullen is starting to understand why Aridhel and Felan seem to share such an intensely strained relationship now.  He won't pretend to know the whole of it, however. Every kindness Felan has shown Aridhel since he’d come here is perhaps a way to mend the burnt bridges between them.  And as it stands, they are all each other has left of their fallen clan.

Aridhel’s green eyes flare with hurt.  “Do you know what it is like to be thrust into a role you are not meant for because _someone else_ was not fit for it?  To have- to have everyone look to you to pick up the pieces when you are just as lost in the aftermath, yourself!” Aridhel slams his fist on the desk and glass bottles scattered about its surface rattle.  “And for naught!”

 _“I do know!”_ Cullen shouts at him.  Skin crawling memory flickers through his mind of his magical torture chamber in the Circle Tower, and then anger simmers above that thought as he recalls his dangerous bullheadedness after being sent to Kirkwall shortly thereafter - too soon… entirely too soon.  He realises now he was not fit for duty after what had happened to him, let alone taking over after Meredith…

Cullen is also reminded he’s missed his chance to speak with Cassandra about stepping down as commander ever since Aridhel’s impromptu arrival and the subsequent planning surrounding the issue with the Grey Wardens and Corypheus.

Aridhel paces away towards the bookcases, shoulders hunched and shaking with each angry breath he heaves.  Cullen barely hears him mumble, _“Fenedhis lasa…_ and now I am here where I am not even trusted with my own blade…”

“Perhaps you should rethink your means of making first impressions,” Cullen retorts dryly.

Turning on his heel, Aridhel stalks back to Cullen and crouches before him, directing his eyes up to hold Cullen’s gaze captive. _“Danalas ara insil arulin’sil,”_ Aridhel says in an annoyed, near-whisper.

Cullen is frozen, confused, only able to watch Aridhel’s full lips part just a fraction, then he registers the slightest touch at his right leg - his boot - ah, the dagger he'd taken from Aridhel.  Cullen flinches.

Aridhel twirls the dagger in his fingers before grasping the hilt, blade pointed down.  He smirks and rises slowly - so slowly - to his feet, stopping mere inches before Cullen’s groin to make a show of sliding the dagger through the straps of his own boot.  Cullen snatches Aridhel’s wrist as the elf stands fully.

_“What do you think you’re doing?”_

Aridhel’s sly grin grows full with a hint of teeth.  Cullen’s gut clenches. His mood swings were unnerving.

“Taking back that which is _mine,_ Commander.  I was sure you’d taken it after knocking me unconscious and I was thrown into that dungeon.  I _knew_ it later that day as you lingered in front of my holding cell - did you think it a _prize,_ or perhaps another reminder?"Aridhel traces a finger of his free hand along his own jaw - along the same area in which Cullen bears a fresh, still pink scar from Aridhel’s dagger; an unfortunate result of their first meeting.  Aridhel then lifts his other arm in a jerking motion in attempt to free his wrist, but Cullen holds fast. _“Observant,_ remember, Commander?  I see the glint of the hilt in your boot every morning the sun catches it during our drills.  I’ll be mocked by it no longer.”

Before Cullen can respond, Aridhel’s left hand shoots to his sword pommel and the elf cocks his head, as if daring him - wanting him to make a move.  Cullen won't give Aridhel the chance to unsheath it and releases his wrist, shoving him back a little ways. Aridhel may be keen-eyed, but he also enlists deception and trickery to gain the upperhand.  Cullen wonders at how many situations he’s used this very tactic.

“If it's trust you want to earn, using pitiful seductions and subterfuge is not the way, I promise you.”

The faintest hint of hurt flits across Aridhel’s face before a snarl curls his mouth, accentuating a small dark freckle (Cullen had never noticed before now) that dotted the right curve of his top lipline next to the pale blue vallaslin there.  Cullen had only noticed the mark on Aridhel’s left cheekbone, as it reminded him of Dorian’s.

Aridhel steps back to the side of the desk.  “How do you think I made it this far?” He smiles now, close-mouthed, and Cullen can tell it’s forced. “And what’s the matter Commander Rutherford, do you not care to blow off steam?”

Is he- is Aridhel truly… _propositioning him?_ Oh Maker, he could wring Felan’s neck right now for forcing the two of them to work together.

“No. If I wanted to do that, I’d step into the sparring ring or go for a run,” Cullen tells him, voice stern.  He doesn’t bother hiding his exasperation. “I don’t make it a habit of doing… _that_ with my fellow soldiers.”

The elf crosses his arms and leans his hip against the desk.  He doesn’t look Cullen’s way, keeping his head turned and gaze set to the dusty floorboards. “Right, well…” Aridhel trails off, then something like an incredulous snort passes through his nose. “I do know your proclivities sway at least one way, seeing as you apparently made exceptions for your _leader_ in the past.”

The tower room feels suffocating and Cullen’s pulse throbs heated in his cheeks and ears.  He thinks he might be on the verge of feverish. A moment ago Cullen felt the bite of sympathy for the man before him, but now... now he wants him out of his sight.  “Watch your tongue, Master Aridhel. You know not what you speak of.”

Aridhel’s head snaps up. _“Oh, I watch it very well,_ but I usually enjoy someone else doing so when I’m putting it to good use.  I’m all for showmanship.”

 _“Stop this._ I-I have much to do and if you’d so kindly take your leave… Unless there is something of actual importance you needed?”

“No, I will leave you to the warm company of your,” Aridhel gestures to the reports and missives still awaiting Cullen’s attentions. “paperwork, Commander.” Neither the cold apathy nor the odd, playful Dalish-Starkhavener lilt that Cullen had already become accustomed to were present in Aridhel’s words.  He pushes off the desk and makes to leave Cullen’s office, finally.

Cullen feels an annoying sort of guilt nibbling away at him.

But perhaps he can put Aridhel to work while he's away from Skyhold - keep him busy and building respect while keeping his morals intact; not that it seems Aridhel cares much for morals.

“Maker preserve me,” Cullen mutters under his breath.  He rubs his burning eyes with his thumb and forefinger and prays he will not regret this decision.  “Wait.” When Aridhel turns in front of the door to his left, Cullen continues. “As you may know, I am to lead a regiment of soldiers to the Western Approach soon.”

“I do, but not the specifics, entirely.  What about it?”

“The Inquisitor - Felan, he has ah… he has requested the aid of his Inner Circle as well, which means that Seeker Pentaghast will also be accompanying us.  I will need all the able bodied soldiers we can take. However, I will not push men and women into an early death who do not know how to properly hold a sword or draw a bow.  

“Those staying behind at Skyhold will need someone to watch over them and take over daily drills and observe their practice or sparring.  I’ll not have them lazing about while I’m gone or they’ll never get any better.”

Aridhel’s neat, dark brows rise and he re-folds his arms in front of him.

“Normally, I would have Cassandra take over if need be, but I will have you oversee our soldiers in our absence.”

 _“You must be mad,”_ Aridhel growls along with more words in Elvhen Cullen is sure he does not want to know the meaning of.

“You will be by my side tomorrow morning as I inform the group of soldiers that will be going to the Western Approach, as well as those who will be staying behind.  They _will_ heed your word as they would my own, and you will make sure of it.”

Aridhel makes a choked off sort of sound.  “I am merely an unwanted comrade to them. Why should they listen to me?  And why the Void do you believe me qualified for this over some man or woman who has been here longer than I?”

“You have been here for nearly two weeks, yet you know every pace I put them through each morning by heart already, and you never complain… though admittedly, I was expecting you to.  Instead, I see the way you tense before I correct one of the soldiers’ mistakes, because _you_ also want to correct them.  I watch you narrow or roll your eyes at their improper form.  I can practically see you biting your tongue. Whether you want to admit it or not, Master Aridhel, there is still leadership inside of you, and you do yourself no favours denying that fact.  While I’m gone, I hope - _I expect_ you to embrace that.  Perhaps you will find the redemption I know you seek.”

Cocking a brow, Aridhel begins to ask, “How do you-”

“Because I look for it everyday... along with the reason as to why I was given the chance to seek it out in the first place...”  Cullen goes quiet, trailing off. “Perhaps you can teach them tactics and techniques I cannot… and it’ll give the lot of you a chance to earn each others’ respect.”

Aridhel stands a little straighter and purses his lips a moment before speaking.  “Is that an order then, Commander?”

“I would have it be taken as such, yes.”

“And my blade, would I get it back during this time?”

Cullen didn’t think it time yet, and he didn’t feel comfortable arming the elf in that way when he would not be there to supervise Aridhel’s behaviour.  He sighs. “Not yet.”

Aridhel uncrosses his arms and barely suppresses a groan. _“Dahn dire’lan!”_

“Do this, and we will see about you getting your sword once I return.”

Narrowing his eyes, Aridhel asks Cullen, “A test, then?”

Cullen smiles and steps towards Aridhel.  “If you wish to see it as such, then yes - a test.”

Nearly stomping away, Aridhel barks out, “You shem are insufferable!” and wrenches the door open.  

“Are we in agreement then?!” Cullen cannot suppress the laughter in his words.

The haze of dusk is drawing its curtain on the day in full now and the last hints of sunset limn Aridhel’s willowy silhouette in the doorway as he stops mid-step.  The elf glances over his shoulder, one hand clutching the warped wood of the door. “If only to prove that  _shemlen_ are inept warriors.”

This time, Cullen laughs in earnest.  “If only…” His laughter is met with a grumble in a foreign tongue and the slam of the door.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danalas ara insil arulin’sil - you are shattering my thoughts seriously/you are greatly distracting me
> 
> Dahn dire’lan - something akin to idiot/moron lol
> 
>  
> 
> Comments and kudos are love<3
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr @thefire-in-the-nightsky and @fuoco-somniari1313 (my art & inspo) or twitter @nauka_o_ogniuXV


	4. Unstitch Your Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's not meant to be a strife,  
>  It's not meant to be a struggle uphill_
> 
> _You're trying too hard  
>  Surrender,  
> Give yourself in_
> 
> _...If you're bleeding,  
>  Undo  
> And if you're sweating,  
> Undo  
> If you're crying, darling  
> Undo_
> 
> _Unravel"_
> 
> -Björk, _“Undo”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *So, a couple notes before reading this chapter: As of 3-17-19 I've added a "prologue" from a missing moments collection for this series because I ended up feeling it really belongs here as well now that I've started this spin-off of Firebreather for Aridhel and Cullen. It's now allocated as Chapter One, so it's bumped other chapters forward. Please read that before this update, if you'd be so kind :)
> 
> **Mind the new tags. Within this update there is mention of some stuff from Ari's past that could be considered "dubious consent," but it's not explored in detail/graphic.
> 
> ***Also, all translations located in end notes for this chapter!

 

Vulgar song, riotous laughter, and the incessant drone of conversation layered over conversation; it all commingles into an assault on Aridhel's ears.

His mead is a bit too sweet for his tastes, but as he pours more of it down his throat the thickness is pleasant, at least.  He has never been one for shemlen-made ales, and the whisky and brandy in this tavern are lacking in depth and too sharp in their heavy alcohol-taste.  The mead is a compromise he can deal with.

He misses the dry wines Laleal and Deshanna used to make.  He misses the _uisge-beatha_ that burned and warmed his chest in welcoming Starkhaven inns while he draped himself over a moderately handsome fellow with deep pockets and a tongue for flattery.  He misses the accepting ease he felt, wandering the market streets of Ansburg, not afraid to hide his ears, nor his vallaslin.

His thoughts are straying.

Aridhel doesn’t fit into the joyful chaos here.   There are those that have known one another prior to this mess with the tear in the sky - like the obnoxious “Chargers” currently shouting over each other to seemingly see who can slur a verse of tavern song the loudest.  And then there are others who’ve simply formed camaraderie out of scared desperation or genuine friendliness he does not possess, himself.

But no one, and rightfully so, has warmth for the Dalish who attacked their commander after madly demanding to see their inquisitor.

How do you apologise for something you aren’t sorry for?  It has been a little over a month and Aridhel still feels eyes on him like shadows at his back.  They don’t trust him.

The soldiers left here for him to train don’t cower at his voice like they flinch in the presence of Seeker Pentaghast.  And they certainly do not stand a little straighter, hold their form a little tighter, at the sight of him like they do with one narrowed look from Commander Rutherford.  

_Cullen fucking Rutherford._

The name makes the golden nectar-sweetness bitter and green on his tongue as he takes another swallow from his tankard.

Aridhel could escape up to the more sparsely populated first floor of the tavern, where he could have a bit more peace instead of trying to blend into the shadows of a corner table as he is now, but he’s likely to risk more nervous or judgmental glances that way… _or_ run into the boy-ghost that seems to haunt the upper floors in fleeting moments.

A young man - pleasantly fair of hair and complexion, handsome enough… and human, because _of course_ he is - keeps eyeing him like a flighty fawn even now.  He seems to be wrestling with a decision of some sorts, likely unsure if he were to run, would the wolf give chase?  Or shall he take his chances and be safer in numbers, no matter how drunk and oblivious to his little plight that perceived protection is?  Aridhel holds the stranger’s gaze with the darkness of his own.

Ah, but the fawn is a curious creature afterall.  So rarely is he wrong about matters, but he does so love it when an error provides a much more interesting venture in the end.

The shemlen approaches Aridhel’s table with a genial, if not tentative smile; eyes shiny and bright with drink.  The cup in his hand is no doubt his second or third, but in all likelihood, he doesn’t have the head for whatever it is, given the wobbly way he almost sits across from Aridhel, then seems to think the better of it at the last second.

“I- um- May I, serrah?”

Aridhel blinks at the stranger’s politeness.  Also a side effect of the drink, he guesses.

“What is your name, young man?” he asks him.  Sure to add in a slight, calculated curl to his mouth as he goes for another careful sip from his mead.

“Mor- _Ser Morris._  I am the Inquisition’s quartermaster.  Also, I’m twenty-two. You needn’t speak to me like I’m _so_ young.”  Morris still laughs nervously at the end, though his attempt at sounding like he owns the confidence in his words is admirable.

Aridhel smiles a little warmer, setting down his nearly empty tankard with a delicate thud.  “Morris,” he begins. He lets his mouth roll the double ‘r’ softly over his tongue. A mundane, and likely Ferelden name he tries to make more attractive to the ear.  “you may sit. And, you needn’t use formalities, no matter how minor. _Aridhel_ will suffice.  I don’t think most elves even get the luxury of being called ‘serrah’ in most towns, now do they?”  

And currently, this stranger does not get the luxury of knowing his clan name.  He will not give away his connection to Felan so readily just yet.

Another nervous laugh.  Now he wonders if Morris rethinks his choice of company, but the man sits anyway.  A small wave of his hand. “Nonsense. We are all equals here in the Inquisition, serr- _Aridhel._ Right.   _Ahem,_ sorry.”

Aridhel licks his lips.  “Mhm. Equals. Are you, though?” Before his question can be answered, he adds, “So, what is it you do, oh quartermaster of the Inquisition?”  He already knows, but unnecessary information given to a simple elf will let this shem feel more important.

Morris smiles, the confidence becoming a bit more real in the set of his broad shoulders as he leans back in his chair.  “I keep track of orders for many things. Food supplies for the kitchens, the amount of rations for troops here; the blacksmith tells me what important metals or leathers are needed.  Dennet - he’s our horsemaster here, well… Dennet might tell me the horses need more feed or that an extension needs to be made to the stables. And I’m to go through the proper channels to make sure that happens, or… find out if it _can_ happen after speaking to Lady Montilyet.”

There’s a lot of shushing and mild bickering going on from the directions of that loud, tone-deaf mercenary troupe now.  Their… leader of sorts… that giant, hulking Qunari, is somewhere out in Orlais with Felan and everyone else in his… ah, what did the commander call it?  Felan’s _“inner circle,”_ yes.  He wonders if the Chargers are this rowdy with him around, as well.

Things become a little more hushed from them, besides an unmasked grumble or two.  Teasing jibes towards one in particular now, sounds like by the tone of their voices.  In the modicum of quiet they leave in the crowded, ale and sweat-soaked air, the resident bard strums her lute.  Like a spell cast, the whole of the tavern shushes itself in the wake of that single sweep of thumb and forefinger, and the bard’s whisper-soft voice begins to carry above all else.

Well, all except Morris’s stammering Ferelden accent.

“But I also, you know… help new recruits or people coming to the Inquisition for other reasons… I handle finding them quarters, clothing perhaps.  Requisition anything they may need when they arrive,” Morris continues. Aridhel tries to seem deeply interested. Honestly though, he wants to ask about the horses, other livestock.  “Actually, the reason I came over here was… I’ve not seen you around much - or for very long, for that matter. You are new here - to Skyhold, I mean. Aren’t you?”

Aridhel keeps his cocksure poise and a neutral expression.  He slings one arm over the back of his chair. “Surely you get plenty of newcomers within these walls.  People of all sorts in and out of this keep, however temporary or permanent, do you not?” Again, he does not let his first posed question receive its answer.  Aridhel knows he excels at rhetoric. “What is it then, that deems _me_ worthy to seek out?  Or did you have another point to your observation?”

A blush.  A shy smile followed by the duck of his head.  Morris hides behind the rim of his cup as he takes a long pull.  Hm. Embarrassment, perhaps? Maybe Aridhel has caught this human out earlier than he thought it would take.  He feels a bit like a disappointed cat with a field mouse that’s sputtered out its last breath before he was even done playing with it.

Morris sets down his cup harsher than Aridhel is sure the young man intended, because he actually startles at the sound and looks further embarrassed.  Then he outright _giggles._  Aridhel wants to grimace, and he empties his tankard to drown out the curious flutter in his stomach.

Apparently, he does in fact, pull a face.

“No good?” Morris asks, pointing to Aridhel’s tankard.

Well, bad drink is as good a cover as any, he supposes.

“Mm.  A bit heavy on the honey-flavour, I’m afraid.  Normally, I prefer whisky or brandy, but…”

“It’s shite, aye?” Morris laughs.

Aridhel’s mouth forms a thin line.  “Yes. I suppose so.”

“I know!  Um… I mean, I can get you something better, if you’d like?  The Inquisitor has me special order certain brandys and wine for ah,” Morris halts himself as if he is about to speak something taboo. “he and Lord Pavus.”

And there it is… that fucking shem Felan’s taken up with.

“No, no.  That isn’t necessary, I-”

But Morris is up out of his seat, sweetly and aggravatingly persistent in his insistence that “it’s quite alright, really.”  He scampers and sways his way off towards the bar, the moody dwarven barkeep apparently made more irritable by the boy’s smiling face approaching.  An exchange of coin and they both disappear for a moment into a room behind the counter.

While he’s blessedly alone again, Aridhel goes back to people-watching.  The bard is singing something a pinch less morose, but much more upbeat, and he can hear the gallop of dancing, booted feet above him.  He watches a young, pretty red-haired girl pretend she does not want to dance with a fairly attractive hulk of a man. She glows with laughter until the tug of war ends with her in his arms, prancing across the floorboards amongst a few more couples that have beat them to the punch.  They kick up the smell of dirt and old sawdust with their merriment.

Aridhel feels he might be sick with it all.

A bottle appears on the table before him, and then a very chipper, but clearly still nervous Morris sits across from him once more.  

 _“Tapadh leat,”_ Aridhel mumbles and picks up the bottle.  The liquid is a beautiful deep amber, but what truly catches his eye is the plump pear submerged within the brandy.  It is a wonder to him as he tilts the bottle up towards the light of a nearby torch.

“I cannot believe that pompous-looking prick drinks _Calvados.”_ Oh, but it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?   _Lord Pavus._ The insult towards the mage attached to Felan’s hip is spat quietly beneath his breath.  He doesn’t at all feel sorry for indulging in his ex-lover’s-lover’s drink.

Morris clears his throat. “Um, what was that?”

Aridhel quickly turns back to his guest and sets the bottle upon the table.  He notices Morris brought no snifters with him. No matter. He doesn’t care to pay respect to this bottle.  One does not need respect or propriety in order to become drunk; not at all. He slides his dagger from his boot and peels away the wax seal from the bottle like a ripe apple skin.

“I am just surprised what is on hand here is a Calvados brandy, of all things.  Hidden, it seems, but even still. Your Inquisitor must truly be fond of this Tevinter-shemlen to spend his coin on such indulgent… expenses.” He brushes the little red curls of wax from the table and begins working at the cork stopper.

“Oh, it’s fine - it comes straight from the Inquisition’s coffers.  And no, not that... what you said when I brought the bottle over. Was that Elvhen?  Besides the Inquisitor of course, we’ve quite a few elves here at the keep, and on occasion I’ve heard them speak it.  But, I’m afraid I know none of it. So, was that what that was? Elvhen? Ta- tapad laht?”

Aridhel cringes inwardly at the abysmal pronunciation.

The cork releases from the bottle with the pleasant release of suction.  Aridhel tosses the cork behind him and begins pouring himself a quarter-full tankard of the pleasantly-pear scented liquor.

 _“Tapadh leat?_ Yes, it is.” It isn’t.  But this human need not know his life’s little details.  “It meant, ‘thank you.’” And true, it did. Little pesky _white lies._  Morris doesn’t seem the type to go on trying to practice his learned “Elvhen” phrases on anyone anytime soon, though.

The Calvados is warm, smooth apples at the back of his tongue, a bright little flame down his throat.  He offers a pour to Morris, and the human sputters and coughs into the crook of his arm after a small swig.

“That… that’s horrid!  And I tipped Cabot th… three silver for handing me off the whole bottle!  I’m…” He clears his throat. “I’m awfully sorry, ah- Aridhel. I can get you something else, if you’d like?”

Aridhel waves him off.  “You flatter me with your kindnesses, but I actually _do_ like it.  Some sweetness is better with a little _bite_ wouldn’t you say, Morris?  Now, care to tell me the real reason you decided to share company with a Dalish tonight?”

The question clearly catches Morris off guard.  He takes another sip of the brandy and stifles a choke.  It makes Aridhel realise just how pretty he might look doing the same on his knees.  Aridhel thinks he could find many a convenient use for a handsome, young quartermaster, indeed.

“I um… yes, I… _right,_ I thought you… might like the company?  And… _ahem..._ will I get punched if I tell you I find you rather um- _striking?”_ He rushes to add, “N-not because you’re an elf or anything!  I’ve seen you… y’know… out there trying to help Commander Cullen’s men train while he’s been gone - only when I’m not busy though, of course!  But sometimes you are… distracting I suppose. It’s - _you’re_ exciting to watch.”

Aridhel actually laughs, full and smooth like the brandy between them.  This human’s naiveté is almost charming.

 _“Oh bells…!”_ Morris groans, letting his face fall into his hands as he props his elbows onto the table, nearly knocking over his cup.  “I cannot _believe_ I just said all that!  I’ve probably offended you and-”

Chiming his dagger blade against the brandy bottle, Aridhel recaptures Morris’s attention.  “Now, now,” he begins as if he might be speaking to an upset child. “You have done no such thing.  What if I told you, _I_ am rather taken with you as well?”

Nonchalantly, he props his foot up on the vacant chair beside him so as to place the dagger back into the sheath at his boot.  He pretends then to brush imaginary dirt from his toe. Though every movement is casual, Aridhel is sure to do it with feline grace.

When he looks back up, Morris - the endearing git - is flushed with impossibly more shyness and smiling halfway into his gloved hand; a hand that isn’t doing the best job of keeping him upright, mind.

“So, my dear _Ser Morris,”_ Aridhel pauses to tip his head down with a small smirk.  In an obvious act of coquetry, he only raises his eyes to Morris as he continues through his teasing grin and heavy eyelids, “tell me more about yourself, why don’t you, then?”

He did not need to know the intricacies of Aridhel’s life, nor who he was _\- who he had been -_ to Felan.  Best not tarnish the image of the beloved _Inquisitor Lavellan._ No, human men did so love to go on about themselves just fine.

 

They stumble across the grounds towards the requisition tower, because Aridhel just simply _had_ to indulge in this poor shem’s lack of ego and ask for a tour.  It does indeed help that this tower is also where Morris has his own quarters.

“Your… your _accent!_  It doesn’t quite _sssound_ Elvish- _Dalish!_ \- now that I think about it, does it?” Morris’s slur has come out to play.  Lovely.

One muscled arm is slung around Aridhel’s shoulder, but he isn’t sure who is leading who as he tries to keep Morris walking in an acceptably straight line with his arm around his waist for support.

Aridhel takes a long pull from the brandy bottle. “Matters, does it?”

When they reach the tower door, Morris props himself up against the stone doorjamb and fumbles a bit with a rather impressive amount of iron keys on a ring.  Four tries. Not terrible.

He leans against the door before opening it to gaze starry-eyed at Aridhel.  “No, ‘spose it doesn’t. But… I like to hear you speak and… you don’t do much of that, do you?”

“Mm.  I find appeal in a bit of mystery.” Aridhel hands the bottle to Morris and gestures a little impatiently for him to lead the way inside.

Aridhel doesn’t recall nor care about the oh-so important requisition table, the jars of healing and lyrium potions (though the stamina draughts pique his curiosity, but that is for perhaps another time) intermixed with this or that tome or dried herb.  He sidesteps sacks of spice and seasonings, and crates of who-knows-what until they’re upstairs and he has Morris’s back against the wall by the glow of candlelight.

Glassy blue eyes that don’t seem quite so lovely, and not at all warm enough up close, stare at Aridhel’s lips kissing the mouth of the bottle again.  He reaches up to stroke the sharp cut of Morris’s cheekbone with its semi-permanent pink rouge from tonight’s alcoholic imbibing and flirtations.

_Pale, faintly freckled skin from the sun.  Flaxen hair between my fingertips. What would it feel like?  A blush like crushed pink petals when I smile at him. Hand at the back of his neck where I could wrap my arms.  What hides beneath that shell of armour?_

A subtle smile creeps across Aridhel’s face before he catches himself.  These thoughts are like a voice in his head that he wants to shake out. Spotty recollections from an odd dream he’d had the night before.  He drinks more, drowns it out.

Morris places his hand over Aridhel’s where it sits at his jaw.

“You don’t smile much, either.  I mean, _really smile._ But…” Morris lets out a gust of nervous air through full lips.  “you really are beautiful,” he tells Aridhel. “May… may I kiss you?”

_A curious scar.  But a smile still made perfect and sharp as a blade, but never aimed at me.  Why would he?_

_“He’d be nicer if you were.  You worry him.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Pacing, marching, mind throbbing.  A want for a distraction. Right now, he’s wondering how you’re faring.  ‘Maker, did I make another mistake?’”_

_“Fenedhis lasa!  Why do you insist on speaking that way?  Why speak at all if you cannot do it plainly?”_

_“I’m sorry.  You seemed lonely, like him.  It hurts you. You are also curious.  Like a book you shouldn’t read. Paper pages cut your fingers, but the words entertain so you don’t close it.  But, you’re too afraid to open up yourself… shall I make you forget?”_

Oh, to the fucking _Void_ with this.

Aridhel breaks the Calvados bottle against the nearby table.  Morris, bless the poor thing - jumps.

He isn’t going to let wandering thoughts on some damned strange dream, nor meddling _elgar-da’lin_ therein, ruin his night.  

Before the freed pear can roll on its merry way across the floor, Aridhel snatches it up.  He inspects it for glass then wipes it on his tunic-front and takes a bite. Sweet juices and pungent alcohol fill his mouth as he chews and swallows the overly tender fruit.

He offers the liquor-soaked pear to Morris, who silently declines with the shake of his head, mouth a bit agape.  Aridhel shrugs and leans over to set the fruit upon the table. “So, may you kiss me, you ask?” He smiles viciously; his prey snug beneath his claws.  “Ohh, you may do more than that, if you’d like. Yes… sweetness with a _bite._ Aye, Ser Morris?”  And well, his dear, sweet, callow Morris practically lunges for his mouth.

The taste of sweet pear and brandy mix between their tongues, and Morris is only slightly more skilled than Aridhel anticipated.  He is oh, so very eager, though. The hands at Aridhel’s hips glide to his ass, pressing them closer. Aridhel grinds upwards and uses their height difference to his advantage, kissing down Morris’s jaw and neck.

“As the Inquisition’s quartermaster, you’ve no choice but to answer to every whim and _need_ of Skyhold’s residents, do you?” Aridhel asks between kitten-licks against a racing pulse.  

Morris nods with alacrity. _“Yes.”_

Aridhel truly does _want_ to smile now.

Standing on his toes, he grips soft blond hair between his fingers, tugging as Morris moans.  He silences him with a brief, sloppy kiss, then whispers in his ear, “Every _craving?”_

Aridhel begins unfastening Morris’s jerkin as he continues on his course of laying open-mouthed kisses down the shem’s neck.  A “v” of pale flesh is exposed while Aridhel works at toggle fastenings. Sucking lightly, his mouth reaches the hollow of Morris’s throat.  He gasps and Aridhel grins against his skin, victorious.

_“Oh, my Maker...!”_

Morris’s comes back to himself momentarily, enough for his gloves to fall to the floor after he practically rips them off.  With his fingers freed, he deftly unbuckles the slim belt from Aridhel’s waist, letting it fall to the floorboards, as well.  One hand seeks out the warm flesh beneath Aridhel’s tunic immediately. “Yes. _Yes, everything!_ Anything you want, Aridhel...”

Careful fingers caress the small of Aridhel’s back, and he finds himself kissing Morris again.  The young man reaches up to cradle the back of Aridhel’s head with his free hand.

Aridhel expects the rough pull to the loose plait of his hair; wants it.  That wordless command that sometimes guides him on his knees or further down a rumpled bed so he can truly make a man forget his speech.  Though sometimes they still call his name - if they ever care to learn it. It’s always a different one he gives, anyway.

And on more pleasant occasions, he doesn’t have to try so hard if they’ve fallen asleep because he’s exhausted them in other ways, or got them stupid enough on drink alone.

But Morris isn’t stupid - wide-eyed, drunk, and young maybe, yes - but not stupid.  His hands are smooth and gentle on his skin, not rough and possessive. He hasn’t called him _“rabbit.”_ And Aridhel is not here to steal a coin purse or shiny boot-knife, no.  Morris won’t offer him a few sovereign for “a job well done” when the night is through.

He’ll offer him more expensive brandys, good vintage wine perhaps.  Shipments of metal ores and fine leathers for crafting, if he so asks.  Aridhel can bet the man offers his lovers _flowers._

_Anything you want._

For one sobering moment, he feels the weight of his loneliness; the core of his desire racked with frustration, jealousy, and _confusion._

No, this cannot be another lucrative, short-lived tryst like the others.  Aridhel cannot disappear himself from Skyhold come morning, evading the consequences of his actions like before.

Skyhold is no dingy inn; the tavern is a part of his current residence, not a place to pass through after travelling and trade.  The castle is not a brothel where he can gather useful information from loose-lipped clientele and the accommodating people who work within their rooms until he goes back to his… his clan.

Skyhold is _permanence._

Aridhel pulls away, hands stilling in their roaming down Morris’s stomach.  He brushes the shem’s hands aside from the laces of his leggings. Morris attempts to kiss him again in his lust-filled daze.

“We can’t do this.” Aridhel steps back a few paces.

Morris looks at him, bewilderment clear; cocks his head like a confused pup, mouth moving over words he can’t form.

“Wh- Is it because I’m-” He laughs.  Aridhel knows it’s out of nervousness, but it sounds a little bitter to his sensitive ears.  “You think I’m too drunk, don’t you?”

Shaking his head, Aridhel frowns over at him.  “No, it isn’t really that. You are too kind, sweet Morris.”

“Wait!  Please tell me, is it something I did?  Something you… _ahem..._ want me to do differently, maybe?”  Even as he says this, Morris is trying to right his clothing, hiding away bare skin.

Aridhel grabs his belt up from the floor.  “Damn it! No… I… I need to go. This should not have happened.  It was improper of me and you deserve better than I am able to offer you.” He turns to head back down the stairs and grouses, “I’m sorry about the glass.”

Footsteps behind him.  He sighs, frustrated, until they stop.

“What?  Oh! Um, it’s fine.”

Aridhel halts a few steps down, looks Morris up and down one last time. “And find your _spine._  You have one, but you don’t believe in yourself.  You are a part of this Inquisition, are you not?”

Morris glances down at the toggles on his jerkin that he’s taken to fidgeting with. _“Yes, ser._ Heh.  Um. Right, apologies.  So… kind of like how you should smile more, aye?  Maybe you don’t realise how… um, nevermind that. But, I-I can still speak to the Inquisitor for you, you know - about procurement of better spirits or… if you’d like.  He’s brash, but a fair man. I don’t think he’d mind-”

Rolling his eyes, Aridhel continues down the stairs.  He wonders why these _shemlen_ sing Felan’s praises so.  What’s made them so much more worthy to lead and watch over than his own fucking clan?

 _That cursed mark on his hand._ Aridhel nearly shudders at the memory of that green scar pulsing against his own palm the day he’d arrived here.  He couldn’t release his hand from Felan’s quick enough, though he briefly tried to ignore the _wrongness_ of it.

He waves Morris off over his shoulder.  “Dinnae bother. I used to _fuck_ the Inquisitor.  A commonality I seem to be able to share with a few here.  If I want brandy that doesn’t taste like rancid fruit, I’ll ask him myself.”

 

Escaping lingering, wary glances at his back, Aridhel climbs into his tent with a freshly lit lantern.  Finding his waterskin, he gulps down mouthfuls, heedless of the water that trickles down his chin. He roughly wipes at his mouth.  Exhaustion is beginning to take him, but anger’s hold is even stronger and he doesn’t know _why._

He strips off his tunic and tosses it into a small clothing trunk provided by the Lady Ambassador.  After kicking off his boots and unwinding the wraps from around his calves and feet, he digs his toes into the soft, grey wolf pelt laid over his bed roll.  

Aridhel sinks beneath his blankets and watches the dancing flame of the candle within his lantern, the slow dip and roll of clear, melted wax down the honeycomb pattern.  He sighs.

Skyhold may signify permanence.  But it is no replacement for the home he had with the Lavellan clan.

When the clan had taken him in as a small child, _that_ was supposed to be permanent for him.  Of course it wasn’t… of course.

There were often times he wondered what his real parents would have thought of the man he was becoming, but now especially, he wonders how they could ever have been proud of the man he became.  It is good they’ll never know.

Fen’an and Una _\- Felan’s parents -_ they had been proud of him, loved him like one of their own over time.  Growing up, Felan’s sister told him his heart would end up too full one day if he kept it so open.  Keeper Deshanna had always commended his drive and strength, and other hahren praised his skill and bravery.

Felan would tell him his smile made him glow like moonlight in the darkest night.

_“It’s how I’ll always find my way back to you, da’mis.  You guide the wolf home through shadow.”_

It is no wonder they lost one another.

But Aridhel needs to learn to give him up, too.  There is nothing else for it.

Once, when Aridhel was old enough to go to small shemlen villages for trade with a young Felan by his side, Fen’an had told them an old Elvhen saying: _“Let not your tongue cut your throat.”_

Aridhel knows - knows deep down in the dregs of his soul, that he needs to rethink his approach to this entire mess.  Needs to coat his tongue in honey instead of barbs. He has to remember who he used to be.

But where had that got him before?

He rolls over onto his back, closing his eyes and tugging his blankets and furs up to his neck.  Again he wonders fruitlessly, what his life would have been like if the fate of his true _lenalin_ and _lanalin_ had been different.

Aridhel could not recall his father's features; too young was he when a tree would have been planted in his name within the blood-soaked peat of the Marches.  He did not know if his mother had told him much of his father as a child, or if he had asked. Many said he’d been a formidable warrior, but that was all. Aridhel’s mother had carved him a little wooden sword; he tries to remember if it was because he wanted to be a courageous protector like he pictured his father, or if it was simply a childish whim.

His mother's countenance was not so easily plucked from memory, either.  Her pale hair short, like sunbeams had forever shined upon her crown was all he could call to mind; and the foreboding words, “she has gone to The Gallows.  And that is where _you_ shall go too, if you are like her,” uttered by his new Keeper once he was handed off to a group of strangers that were like him, but so very not.  Those words had been like an ironic curse sparked by his mamae’s abrupt absence from his life at just four springs old. It haunted him, still does.

The way another elder explained it, this all meant he needed to keep his head down; whether he was to manifest some magical ability or not.  Dalish in Clan Lavellan were not to mingle long with the shemlen like his previous clan. Of course, he is no mage, and the shemlen still ruined everything despite all their clan’s rules and prudence.

Felan had always been fond of the shems, though.

All Aridhel has left of that nearly forgotten past life are names, _Adasha and Caydran._ And he has hung onto them like some sentimental, charmed thing.  The last sliver of who he truly _was._ A useless lifeline that had been blurred from the onset.

He contemplates whether he can make a life in the shadow of an old one like Felan has, or perhaps he should just leave once he has a plan and his sword back.  He’d always loved Starkhaven because it reminded him of that lost piece of himself. He had seen with his own eyes that the alienages were much improved since Felan’s mother had lived there (by her accounts, anyway).

Aridhel didn’t even have a real plan when he’d stumbled across Skyhold’s bridge over a month ago.  Perhaps he did not need one if he walked back over it. A horse would certainly be a convenient alternative to trudging through the snowy Frostbacks on foot again, though.

Inhaling a deep breath through his nose, Aridhel lets it out slowly through his mouth.   _Enough._ Tomorrow will bring more dirty looks from soldiers who couldn’t give less of an _etunash_ about the worth of his opinion or critique.  But tomorrow he will show them they should listen.  He’ll prove to the commander he had not made a mistake placing these recruits in his care.

For now, he blows out the lantern and gets comfortable to the quiet sounds of Skyhold’s courtyard at night.  He thinks of pale, golden hair curling between his fingers, the feel of cold metal against his skin. Sword-rough hands at his hips.  A terse voice, soft and deep wrapping itself snug around his name. His hand wanders a guilty path below his waistband.

In this moment, he can ignore reality… for just a little while.

Behind the dark of Aridhel’s eyelids, there is no vacant, confused loneliness.  He imagines the prick of stubble drifting below his mouth, and a scar that lifts with a crooked, shy smile; and _it’s entirely for him._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uisge-beatha - Scots Gaelic for whisky (“water of life”)  
> Tapadh leat - thank you ( Scots Gaelic)  
> Elgar-da’lin - spirit-child  
> Da’mis - term of endearment meaning “little blade”  
> Etunash - shit  
> lenalin - male parent  
> lanalin - female parent
> 
> So, of course there’s no Calvados in Orlais, but there also isn’t a Champagne region, and I’ve seen plenty of in-game universe fics with characters drinking champagne, so leave me be! lol Suspend your disbelief with me, here. (And obviously, Starkhaveners don’t speak Scottish Gaelic either, but… my party, my story)
> 
> If you're interested in what Ari looks like here's a little WIP of him [here](https://mobile.twitter.com/nauka_o_ogniuXV/status/1107499990929367040).

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & kudos ever appreciated, my dudes<3
> 
> You may find me on twitter @oh_amatus, my art instagram @fuoco_somniari, or that dumpster fire that tumblr has officially become through my main account, thefire-in-the-nightsky


End file.
